Rules of Engagement
by kiyaarthesamurai
Summary: Captain Anthony Stark is hired by one Baron Zemo to retrieve a priceless treasure somewhere off the coast of Newfoundland. He gets a lot more than he bargained for.
1. An Honest Profession

This is not how Captain Anthony Stark planned to spend the morning.

It was going to be a quick in-and-out job, and then there were going to be peaches, and a nice stroll up the beach on the far side with Caroline, perhaps a quick tumble with Virginia if he got it all done before Peter finished the restocking. There were most certainly not going to be men with swords trying to take his head off.

"Do be reasonable, Victor," the Captain says, dancing around a suit of armor with Victor's face to avoid a sweeping blade– so gratuitous, always, Victor has the most ridiculous ego -

"– You DARE to abscond with von Doom's designs-"

" – I don't _need_ to abscond with your designs," Anthony sings, "I have my own, they're better, this is – really, _unbelievably_ petty -"

"GIVE THEM BACK," Doom roars from the balcony, and he's red in the face, bless him.

"Oh, for god's sake," Anthony says, looking around wildly for another exit as another battalion of them march down the sweeping staircase.

And then he hears the whooshing of arrows.

In a display of obscenely good timing, a volley of them soar over his head, and he watches the two hired hands that have been trying to spear him fall, and his egress is laid before him. He smirks, and tips his hat in what he feels is a suitably flippant manner, then darts out the French doors, sheathing his blade as he goes.

The boulevard is wide, and the numerous topiaries (also in the good Doctor's likeness) provide adequate cover until he can reach the carriage parked just beyond the wide bronze gates. Captain Stark runs between them, his dark leather boots falling heavily in the lush courtyard. Once upon a time, he might have had such splendor as this – an estate of his own, strong, handsome gates, marble columns and a fine oak balustrade winding up through his own great foyer.

As it is, he doesn't.

He has a ship – a lovely ship, a ship that is currently awaiting his arrival in the harbor. He sprints, and his burgundy frock coat fans out behind him impressively – he really should have left it, today, it's oppressively hot at the height of the day on San Dominique, but he had to make an _impression_, didn't he, to get through the doors of Count von Doom's manor and look as if he belonged.

Not that it mattered, in the end.

Clinton ducks out of a tree into the driver's seat of the carriage just as Anthony is swinging himself up into it. "Well, that was bracing," he says, jolting the reins.

Clinton leans easily out and faces back, looses two more arrows upon their erstwhile pursuers. "I think you might have upset them, Captain," he says, and Anthony wonders if he even knows how to look flustered – he's frowning with the effort, all sparkling blue eyes and mussed blond hair tied back under that ridiculous purple scarf of his. He claims it's from a lover – Babette or some such. He obviously can't be bothered with fashion, Anthony thinks, he's ever the pragmatist in simple linen and breeches today, the sweat beading down his neck. "I thought this was supposed to be a three-man operation."

"It was," Anthony says, scaring several goats out of their path as they barrel down towards the village.

"Did you get what we came for?" Clinton says, reaching back into his quiver.

"Yes," Anthony says with a scowl, scaring several goats out of the road as they barrel down towards the village, "But it was messy. There was a bevy of attack geese, _geese,_ honestly, who keeps _fowl _to sound the alarm – and then the premises were not so deserted as I had hoped, honestly, _I _managed to drag myself out this morning for this job, why could he not do the same – careful, you're running out - when I find him, I am going to –"

Anthony doesn't finish telling Clinton what he's going to do, because the carriage is rocked with a fearsome blast and tips over. Victor must really not have been lying about developing his own incendiary cannon – Anthony's is better, of course, in both accuracy and range, but still, he's thrown into a ditch, tumbling after Clinton. Clinton, of course, manages to land on his feet, like a bloody _cat_. Anthony swears, reeling, and feels for his sword, dusting dry filth off of his coat and breeches.

The carriage is burning, and a fresh swarm of von Doom's men are clambering down the hill after them brandishing swords and pistols.

"I'm going to kill him," Clinton says, as they scramble to their feet and run for the docks in a flurry of boots and brocade.

"Agreed," Anthony says, jumping gracelessly over a crate of apples.

* * *

It turns out that Anthony doesn't _need_ to find his bo'sun, he's already back on board by the time Clinton and he dodge the New Doomstadt militia and row out to the _Maiden_. James has already taken them out from the docks, he's pleased to see, there will be no storming of his ship today.

"I should beat you," Anthony says, clambering up onto the wooden deck.

Logan is leaning against the railing, in nothing but his breeches and his boots. He's _clean,_ for once, his dark hair is scrubbed back from his face, and he doesn't smell like a varmint's den for once, and Anthony decides he doesn't look right without grime. "Right."

"Strap you down with the cat."

"Mm."

"Throw you aft and let you swim to catch up."

"And yet," Logan says, lighting his cigar, "you lived."

He must have been to see that horrible Jean woman again. He's entirely too pleased with himself. And too clean. Anthony suspects she's a witch.

"Yes, and the next time you won't," Anthony says, feeling markedly more vindictive, because once again, he's been doing all the work while everyone else _frolics_. "This is why we can't have nice _things,_" he annunciates, sweeping his arm wildly in an arc at the rest of the crew who have been pretending not to listen to the proceedings. "I try, I _try_ to facilitate team-building activities to enrich your portside experience, and you ungrateful lot pass out at the tavern instead of showing up to the heist. You've no one to blame but yourselves."

"It wasn't a heist," Logan says. "That implies you're stealing something valuable."

"It was _important_," Anthony says, decidedly _not mad_ because Logan was having a tumble with some feisty redhead in a warm bed while he was skulking around in the night looking for a way into von Doom's estate. "While you were dozing into your grog, I took the liberty of cordially inviting myself to the Baron's midsummer ball. You certainly won't be going, you couldn't handle yourself among high society if you wore my very face," Anthony says, waving the piece of parchment triumphantly under Logan's nose.

"Yes, and I was so looking forward to it," Logan deadpans.

"Oy," a voice says, and Anthony whirls around.

Caroline is striding up from the hold, a piece of parchment clutched triumphantly in her fist. "And I didn't even need to drink the tavern dry to muster my courage," she says, smirking at Logan, pressing it into Anthony's hand. "You'll need a lady on your arm, Anthony, if you're to be at all convincing."

She's back in breeches, she must have returned early this morning – or never left, Anthony can never tell with that one. She's all business now, the fearsome master-at-arms back in her proper element (she does so despise having to walk about on land in a dress), her lovely blond hair braided into a thick plait resting on her shoulder.

"You _crafty_ thing, Caroline," Anthony says, delighted, examining her invitation. "Yes, I suppose I will. And whom did you rob to get this," he asks. It's a good job she's gotten one, he thinks, the password on hers is different than the one on his. He supposes the debacle earlier was worth it to get his hands on the physical invitation.

"Duke Richards," she says, glancing at the wheel where James is steering them out of the harbor and onto Martinique.

"I thought he was in Havana," Anthony says, striding towards his cabin.

"Apparently not," Caroline says. "Is that a yes, then? You're going to get into terrible trouble if you go on your own, you always do. And Jan has agreed to make me a dress out of the last few bolts from the _Pyrenees_' cargo."

"Caroline, I wouldn't dare refuse you," Anthony says, bending to give her a peck on the cheek, and he means it.

* * *

They weigh anchor on the far side of the island, behind a steep outcropping of rock. They're far enough from the harbor and sufficiently removed from the shipping lanes that detection shouldn't be a problem. It's only one night, and these are fairly safe waters – neither The Shield nor the Navy frequent Martinique, not like Nassau or Port Royal.

"There was a time I would have gotten an invitation of my own to this illustrious affair," Anthony says, as Janet fiddles with his waistcoat. She's perched on the edge of his largest chest, her tiny hands flitting over his new clothes, checking and rechecking every detail.

"Don't," she says, frowning at his baldric because it won't settle right around his waist. "And stop fidgeting, do you really have to go in this heavily-armed –"

"Yes," he says. "Caroline is just as well-equipped, I assure you -"

"Yes, and she has four layers of skirt to hide it all under," Janet says, fiddling with his sleeves. "Well, we'll just have to leave it. You look magnificent. The prettiest thief I ever did see. Certainly the most fashionable."

He glances in the full-length mirror, and he can't help grinning roguishly at his own reflection. He is splendid, dressed to the nines, full stockings and a deep crimson waistcoat trimmed in gold. Jan's made him a new frock coat for the occasion, a dark red that's almost black. He's bathed, too, there's less grime on his face than usual, his goatee impeccably groomed and his dark hair combed and tied back with a bit of red ribbon.

"I'm only a thief because I can't be an engineer," Anthony says, turning around to see himself from the side.

"I know," she says quietly, rising from the cushion she's perched herself upon. "But we're much better company than those court pigs, you know that."

"Well, we hardly pay for ourselves, do we, otherwise I wouldn't have to _go_ on silly errands like this."

It hangs in the air between them, a bit too honest, and Anthony is suddenly very interested in the thick cuffs of his frock, in fixing his hat so it sits just so. Janet leans back on her arms, her hair falling out of her braid, entirely too perceptive for her own good.

"What do you know of this Baron Zemo, anyway? I can't recall him ever being in close confidence with my father –"

"He's wouldn't have been," Anthony says, slipping a dagger into his boot. "Old money, foreign, my father used to speak of him – or mentioned him in passing, once, at least, before."

"Oh," she says. "Well, it'll be an affair, then, won't it."

"I'm counting on it," he says. "I need a suitable distraction, and there's nothing like all that new money, canting about, drunk on imagined power and wine to give it to me. Are you sorry it's Caroline going, rather than you? She did procure her own ticket -"

"Lord, no," she says, swooning back onto the coverlet dramatically. "I've had enough of that. And Henry is bound to be there, given that this is supposedly a meeting of scientific minds –"

"He's not, he's in the Galapagos," Anthony says, "but I can kill him for you if you like, next time he's this side of South America."

Janet huffs out a sigh and picks herself up off the bed. "No, Anthony," she says, "My business with Henry is my own."

Anthony huffs dramatically. "I know, I'm sorry, you're very capable," he says, "I just can't help myself, he's the most puffed-up naturalist I've ever had the misfortune of meeting, you're just too good for him, Jan-"

"Shh," she says, slipping one of her rings onto his finger. "You need to worry about deceiving our good Baron. This is for you. Should you find yourself in a tight spot."

"Oh, you spoil me, Janet," he says, turning his hand in the light nonetheless. It's one of the gold ones, the hidden needle set into the diamond, and it sparkles in the play of the candlelight. He sighs. "If I have to poison anyone tonight, this will have all gone terribly pear-shaped."

"Well," she says. "At least bring me back something glittering so I can keep you in fine silks."

"Oh, my dear," he says, fitting his pistol in under his coat, "I intend to."

* * *

"If you do that again, I'm going to shoot you," Caroline says.

Anthony may be mildly inebriated, but he certainly did not just have his hand trying to undo the hooks on Caroline's bodice, no, he did not, even though she looks positively delectable in her reds and creams and golds and her _hair_, good Lord, it's no wonder that Williams fellow was making eyes at her -

"My good Lady Stark, can I not show affection for my wife –"

"Don't bury yourself in the role," she hisses, "and no, you may not, not in public, good _GOD,_ I have to do everything myself, don't I –"

"No, no, no," he says, steadying himself, renewing his efforts to stand straight. "It's all part of the plan, I'm going to stumble into his private study and take what I need, the drink is just part of my cover -"

Caroline ushers them both into the hallway, where Anthony is grateful to have a fine wooden table to lean heavily upon. It's quieter in the corridor, most of the guests are dancing in the ballroom, or else wandering the grounds, secreting themselves away to make love in the summer night.

"You," she says, straightening his hat and smoothing his hair back into what can be considered a respectable plait, "are going to sink this entire operation." She edges his mask until it's firmly settled around his ears again. "Watch your mask, you're going to give us both away if you're not careful-"

Anthony grasps her wrist and pulls her into his body.

"I," he says, resting his fluted glass on the wood surface, "am fine." He looks appreciatively down at her more than ample bosom. "You," he continues, "are also very fine, indeed, Caroline -"

"You'd best be on your way, Sir Anthony," she says, fiddling with her own mask, and it does set off her eyes _wonderfully,_ and _oh,_ she's settling a warning hand between his legs -

"Yes, yes, I'm going," he says. "You won't reconsider?" He gives her what he is _certain_ – time and many, many women and men have confirmed it – is a winning smile. Perhaps he'll ply the cold lady Danvers yet, the night is young, and there is much wine and the _music_ -

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she says, snatching the glass up herself and downing the entire thing. "In for a penny, in for a pound." Anthony tries not to look as though his fantasies have been spoiled by her outburst.

"Caroline," he says, in ersatz shock, but he can't keep the corners of his mouth from quirking up in a smile. "That's no way for a lady-"

"_Go_," she says, "or we'll never get to the far North and my virtue will be ruined."

Anthony watches her whirl back onto the dance floor, and seriously doubts both the integrity and endangerment of Caroline's virtue as she takes another glass of sherry from the attending as she goes.

She does so command attention, he thinks, as he slips into the Baron's study.

* * *

The Baron, he learns, is a voracious reader. His study is full of books, leather-bound, stacked floor to ceiling, the smell of parchment thick in the air. Anthony used to have such rooms of knowledge. Before.

He's heard much about him, how he improved Frederick's navy – a visionary in the field, they say, his hull designs twice as fast and strong as steel. Not as widely known as Anthony's work – Prussia isn't the maritime power that England is, certainly – but a person of interest. He might grow to be one of Stane's competitors, eventually, and Anthony wishes that didn't please him so.

He might have been one of Anthony's, once upon a time.

He's clearly wealthy, of a class Anthony hasn't seen since his days in court. His manor is by far the most imposing structure on the entire island, save for the fort. He'd say he was one of the nouveau (too far from his native Prussia to be anything else) but there's nothing to suggest he's fallen out of favor with Frederick, and he is, reputedly, the most favoured of his inventors. Perhaps he prefers the solitude, Anthony thinks. Martinique is hardly a bustling center of commerce, better to conduct his experiments quietly, sequestered away in his mansion. Anthony would do the same, if he were still a person of any importance.

Anthony rifles through his drawers, through stacks of loose parchment and bound diaries. His drawings are fascinating, really, Zemo obviously dabbles in what pleases him – clockwork, fanciful weaponry, a few projects that look a lot like alchemy, he'll have to ask Stephen if they've crossed paths,_metallurgy_ –

No wonder he's after the treasure in the North.

Anthony searches methodically, thinking wistfully of the beautiful women and men whirling about in satins and silks outside. Best to get this done, find the notes, tuck them away and _go, _before he's detected, and then he can find a body to warm his bunk. Possibly Caroline. Or that young lieutenant Stone by the vat of punch, he was quite fetching. Anthony is willing to chance the buggery charge for such a jawline, it's not like he has much else to lose at this point –

The job, though, that's what he's here for. If he's lucky, he'll find what he's looking for, If he can perfect the design, he can go up against Fury and his band of miscreants, possibly fetch back some measure of the profit he lost on the Santiago haul. Perhaps he'll even sell it to the King - he'll have to see how the tide of the war is turning in a few months.

Well. There's nothing to say he can't sell it to both sides.

He finds it, finally, in the bottom-most drawer, in the back of a leather-bound diary, the meticulously rendered sketch. It's a clever idea, if clumsily thought-out – a pistol that can fire five shots in succession instead of one, each with its own barrel. Anthony suspects that a hexagonal design would be far more prudent, but these are details to be worked out later. Certainly, when he's perfected the design, it will be worth a small fortune to someone, and a fortune is a thing he sorely needs if he's ever going to get his company back.

He pockets it, and is preparing to step out into the courtyard when a voice stills him in his tracks.

"Looking for something?"

Anthony whirls around, lurching. He's only half pretending, he realizes.

The Baron stands, resplendent in his fine purple brocade, a glittering gold chain heavy around his neck. He's tall, just as tall as Anthony, and proudly bears a sword – he's not of the Navy, Anthony is certain. He appears a distinguished man, not old, though his hair is greying. His face is barely worn, with the slightest suggestion of shallow lines set into his skin, but proud, his bones sculpted, elegant. His eyes are a pale blue, almost grey, and they glint in the firelight, somewhere between amused and dangerous.

"Oh," Anthony says, feigning delighted surprise, "My lord, I'm terribly sorry, I couldn't help but notice the door was ajar, and I wondered that I might find a snuff box. Forgive me."

"Really," he says, striding across the Persian rug, turning his _back_ to Anthony, examining his own bookshelf, "I'm disappointed, Anthony, I had hoped you would at least be candid with me."

Anthony feels to make sure his mask is still on. (It is.)

"I apologize," he says, his mind spinning with guile and the pleasant warmth of drink, "have we met?" He isn't terribly concerned, Zemo is one man between him and the window, and there's nothing to suggest Caroline has been discovered.

"I know of you," the Baron says, and the expression on his face would seem to indicate he is deeply amused. "I know of your work." He pauses. "Your –_fascinating_ history."

Anthony's blood runs cold, but it's simply a reflex, at this point, Zemo is baiting him. There's hardly a soul who's anyone that hasn't heard, he's sure. "I'm sure I haven't had the pleasure," he says coolly.

"Come now," the Baron says. "I meant no disrespect. I sympathize, in fact. You hardly deserved the blow you were dealt. I meant, only, that I was familiar with your skillset – and your interests," he adds, his eyes glittering with delight. "They might even align with my own, presently."

Anthony looks automatically at the door, half-expecting the Royal Navy to burst through.

"Ah, you misunderstand me," the Baron says. "I have no interest in having you apprehended. I thought," he says, crossing to his desk with the swish of his coat, "that we might have a discussion. As gentlemen. You are a gentleman, are you not, Anthony?"

"There's been some disagreement on that front," Anthony says honestly, easing backwards towards the window.

"Why don't you give me back my notes," Zemo says, "and I'll give you something far more valuable."

"I'm sure I don't know what you mean," Anthony says airily.

"Do you know," the Baron says, striding to stand in front of the window – and there goes Anthony's escape route, unless he wants to fight his way out now, "I've heard you're really a fine pirate. If it wasn't for the Shield, you'd probably be the power in these waters -"

"I always have been a fast learner," Anthony says crisply, legitimately annoyed now, "Whatever I try my hand at."

"Yes," the Baron says, turning to flash him that wicked grin again, "And so humble. You're almost a passable thief."

"Well," Anthony says. "I don't usually linger long enough to converse with the fleecee."

"I'd like to hire you," the Baron says, and he's pouring two glasses of Sherry into fine crystal. "Provided you replace my sketchbook."

Anthony carefully gathers his bruised ego and tosses the book back onto the desk before settling himself dourly in Zemo's handsome chair. "It's a poor design anyway," he says stiffly.

Zemo chuckles. "Arms are hardly my forte. A dalliance only, I'm afraid. Really, I'm interested in metal, Anthony." He holds the flute of sherry out, infuriatingly gracious, and Anthony gives him the slightest of nods before snatching it delicately from his hand. He wears gloves, he notices, the same purple of his waistcoat.

"I will not be embroiled in military conflict," Anthony says. "I am not some common hired hand, I am rarely an assassin, and I will not accept any proposition that puts me in Chinese waters." The incident with that scaled beast is entirely too close behind him, he thinks, downing his entire glass of sherry.

"You are, however, a man of curiousity," the Baron says. "You have an inquiring mind. You fancy yourself an explorer, even."

All true. "Perhaps," Anthony says offhandedly, markedly annoyed that this man knows so much about him.

"There is a legend," the Baron says, "of an artifact, lost in the far North. A shining disc –"

" – emblazoned with a star, made of a metal that cannot be bent, broken, or melted down," Anthony finishes. "A legend, Baron," he says.

But the Baron must see how his eyes are sparkling now, hear how his heart is racing, sense his vindication and exhilaration. How can he not, really, this man knows something of the northern treasure, and good _god_, he's had entirely too much wine –

"A legend you've been chasing yourself, if I'm not mistaken."

Anthony considers the smiling Baron, mentally tallies the people he's consulted. He's spoken with Janet, with James, with Natasha –

_Natasha_, that enterprising, duplicitous -

"Fine," Anthony says with a sigh. "Yes, I've heard of it. What do you know of this treasure?"

"I want it," the Baron says.

Anthony breathes out a laugh. "Of course you do," he says reasonably, "But so do I."

"Yes, I know," the Baron says. "Which is why I'm prepared to overlook this - breach of trust," he says, gesturing at the notebook laid upon the mahogany between them, "and offer you something more valuable in return."

"More valuable," Anthony echoes. "A metal that cannot be unmade, there is nothing more valuable than that."

"Oh, but we both know that isn't true," the Baron says. "It's no secret, the _Iron Maiden_ is the most bereaved pirate vessel in all of the Caribbean, what with the Shield taking over these waters –"

"Don't," Anthony says sharply. "I did not come here to discuss that bastard Fury, nor am I in the habit of selling my spoils to strangers who know entirely too much about me." He rises, turns to leave. Caroline is waiting, and he can achieve his ends without this prize. He'll find another way to raise the sum he needs.

"No, you came to steal from me," the Baron says, with a deep laugh. "Anthony. I am prepared to remedy your dire financial situation, should you agree to my conditions."

Anthony slows his steps, against his better instincts.

"And what might those be," he says.

"I will outfit your expedition," the Baron says. "I will provide you with all you need to mount a successful voyage to the North. In addition," he says, lacing his fingers together, "I will pay you most handsomely for the delivery of the cargo. Bring me what you find in the ice," he says, his eyes cold, and far away, "and you will be a rich man once again, Anthony."

"Perhaps you forget, Baron," Anthony says coldly, "I am also in the habit of manipulating metal. What makes you think I'm prepared to relinquish what I find?"

"You're entirely too impoverished not to," the Baron says with a wry smile.

Anthony dearly hates being poor.

* * *

"It's honest money," Anthony says.

He's leaning over the big table in the galley, his fancy coat long forgotten, his hair mussed and his shirt fallen open over his chest. It's late, very late, and he's successfully roused his crew from a dead sleep, save for the ones already on watch.

Plied with an extra ration of rum, of course.

James hasn't touched his. He's opted to glare at Anthony instead. He stands in the corner, crossing his dark arms, frowning.

"There's no such thing as honest money," Logan points out, sitting on top of a barrel looking extraordinarily cross.

"Will it make us something other than bankrupt?" Clinton asks, and he looks like he's _playing_ with a cockroach skittering across the table.

Anthony kills it swiftly with the wider part of the bottle of rum he's been nursing. "Yes, Clinton," he says, exasperated, "have you been listening to nothing I'm saying –"

"I think it's a terrible idea," James says.

"And so it begins," Anthony says. "Make your case, James."

"You don't know anything about this man," he says.

"He's a Baron," Peter offers helpfully.

"He dresses well," Janet chimes in.

"He's solvent," Caroline says, striking her hand against the table. "We're barely scraping by as it is, what with the Shield dogging our every step, these days, I swear I saw the _Valkyrie_ tailing us when we were anchored off San Tomás last month –"

"Wouldn't have this problem if we'd join up," Logan offers, shooting an accusatory glance Anthony's way. "Might get paid sometimes, too."

"We're not joining up," Anthony says firmly. "It's a matter of principle. They've done nothing but make trouble, our profit margins are abysmal since they've moved into the southern regions, do you even _know_ how much it cost me to just _get rid_ of our last cargo –"

"I've said this from the beginning," Carol says, fingering her broadsword. "They're nothing but poachers, it's embarrassing, this used to be an honest profession -"

"There's that word again," Logan says darkly. "I'd like to point out that we rob people for a living. Badly, of course, but –"

"I can string you up if it would help," Anthony offers, pointing bottle in warning.

"You'd have no one to stitch you up," Logan points out.

"We're voting," Anthony declares.

"No," James says. "We're not voting, this is all you, Anthony, trying to prove something, you've been off ever since we lost that haul from the Santiago-"

"I have not been _off_," Anthony says indignantly. "It was a great loss, anyone would be upset -"

"How do we know," James says, speaking over Anthony entirely, "he'll even carry out his end of the bargain, you literally just met this man -"

"We've drawn up a contract," Anthony says. "He's bought you all furs, he's already spent a great deal of coin on preparations alone, he's paid for an entirely new set of cannons built to my specifications to replace the 8-pounders –"

"Oh, good," Caroline says, positively delighted, "Can we, I don't know, _roll the old ones over the side-_"

"No, we're going to sell them," Anthony says, "We can't afford to waste the iron -"

"He's paying for your toys," James says, entirely unimpressed. "You like the attention."

"I rather do," Anthony agrees, taking another long swig of liquor. "It's not like I get it from any of you lot-"

"It's not like you need the encouragement," Peter mutters.

"I'm sorry, what was that?" Anthony says. "Was that my topman banishing himself to bilge duty for the next week?"

"You don't have anyone to replace me," Peter points out, yawning.

"Anthony," Thor says, half asleep in the corner, "I find this a worthy venture. You may count my vote an enthusiastic yes."

"Thank you, Thor," Anthony preens, vindicated.

Carol glances at him, and frowns. "I don't find it all that risky. We've done stupider things."

Logan snorts into his mug. "Like the Mandarin? And the drag-"

"We _agreed_," Anthony says, whirling upon Logan. "We don't speak of that. The dragon was not my fault."

Peter snickers in the corner.

"My point," Anthony says, bristling, "was precisely that: we _have_, in fact, done far more brilliant and dangerous things. This is positively mundane. The absolute worst that happens is we've wasted 6 months, we come back with a priceless prize and get to spread the rumor we've successfully found the Northwest Passage.

"Fine," James says. "Expect a mutiny if this goes poorly."

"Yes, if I see you in my quarters in the dead of night, I shall expect excitement," Anthony says with a wink. James rolls his dark eyes.

"It's cold in Newfoundland," Peter whines.

"Hush, you're getting a new coat," Anthony says.

"Are we voting, then," Caroline says, ignoring him.

"If there are no further objections," Anthony says, looking pointedly at James, who glares back like he isn't worth the argument.

"All for 'yea,'" Anthony says, and every one of them raises their hand.

"Fancy that," he says. "For all the complaining you all do, you certainly all pluck up when it's necessary."

"You don't even know how to get there," Clinton points out, leaning back on his stool.

"Then why did you vote yea," Anthony asks.

Clinton shrugs. "I've never been to Newfoundland."

"Well, how _are_ we going to get there, then?" James asks. "It's nothing but bergs north of Maine this time of year, we're going to run ourselves aground before we even get around the eastern coast. He didn't _give_ you charts, he just gave you a local map, it's nothing without longitudinal bearings -"

"Well," Anthony says, already grimacing. "I know someone who can direct us."

James drinks deeply.


	2. Provenance

They dock in the harbor at San Agustín, and Anthony is able to convince the harbormaster that they're a merchant vessel and nothing more insidious in adequate Spanish. He must be convincing enough, he's sufficiently tan and he does dress like a well-to-do merchant sailor (or perhaps the Spanish just haven't heard of them) and they weigh anchor and set about dividing up the work of stocking the ship for the first leg of their voyage. Anthony argues with Caroline for nine minutes about whether or not he needs a bodyguard, and Caroline shouts at him about how she doesn't speak Spanish at all, and then Jan comes to break up their spat and Anthony sneaks away down the beach before Caroline notices he's gone.

He walks until he can't see the ship anymore, and he makes the short hike up into the sparse copse of trees that mark the entrance to the cave without incident. (He then decides he absolutely despises wetlands when an alligator snaps playfully at his right boot and he narrowly restrains himself from shooting it.)

The cave is dark, if warm. It's a wide room, cozy enough for midwinter (it's one thing he doesn't miss about England). There are hundreds of candles, floating in midair, their light ghosting off the stone walls. Anthony wonders that there isn't wax dripping everywhere, but then, they might not even be real candles – the man is a sorcerer, after all. He delights in illusion.

Stephen Strange is resting in the shadows, currently settled into a bed of furs before a raging fire, an enormous speckled wolfhound dozing at his feet. He reclines, legs crossed, his grey silken cape falling about him in soft piles. His eyes are closed, and there is a finely crafted glass pipe resting inches from his hand, stuffed with what Anthony suspects is hemp.

"I know," Anthony begins, "I know you're not pleased to see me."

"I'm not helping you," the man says, without opening his eyes.

This is why he didn't want to come here, he thinks, scuffing his heel absently along the edge of the rug. They aren't going to resolve their disagreement this way, and he most certainly does not plan to be indebted to a sorcerer. It's the stuff of nightmares, these tricky deals made in whispers and signed in blood.

He'd hoped it would be enough that Stephen owed him a favor, but.

"You haven't even heard the question," Anthony says.

Strange opens his eyes with a start, and Anthony can't tell if he's annoyed or intrigued. He straightens, and stands, his decadent cloak falling easily over his shoulders. He moves about easily, almost gliding, and Anthony knows he's being belligerent, but Stephen _knows_ things.

"I'm not giving you the charts," Stephen says, sweeping past him. "Let it go."

"Stephen," Anthony starts, "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important -"

"And we _both_ know that's a lie," Stephen says. "It isn't a good idea."

"So there _is_something there," he presses.

"It will upset the Natural Order of Things."

"You do owe me a favor," Anthony points out.

Stephen pops a date into his mouth. "Not this favor. Perhaps you should consult Namor. This is really his area."

Anthony sighs. "It's like you don't _trust_ me, Stephen -"

"I don't," Stephen says plainly.

"I brought back several casks of that wine you like," he tries, "last I was in Seville."

Stephen sighs. "Will you go away if I help you?"

Anthony beams. "Probably."

"I don't have them," Stephen says, and Anthony opens his mouth to protest. "But I'll see to it that Namor meets you on the surface when you're done restocking. He owes me a favor."

"No," Anthony says, scowling. "Damn it. I hate dealing with him, Stephen, I would have gone to him if I'd thought he'd help me -"

"Oh, stop." Stephen takes another puff of his pipe and looks entirely unimpressed. "He isn't that loathesome. You're getting what you want, after all."

"Fine," Anthony says, sweeping his hat off the wooden table by the door. "I can see we won't be repairing any bridges here. Good to see you, Stephen. Don't lose yourself on the astral plane."

"You're welcome," Stephen says to his back as he stalks off down the hill to the beach. "I still want a cask of that wine."

* * *

Anthony doesn't realize he's stomping until he almost trips on his way up the gangplank.

"I see you're feeling unloved again," James says, as he's loading crates into the hold with Logan. They're mostly done, he thinks, there wasn't much left on the docks save for some goats and a few barrels of salt-pork.

"Don't," Anthony says. "Was the good Baron's purse enough to pay for the lot?"

"Yes," Jan says, sitting cross-legged on top of a barrel, going over what looks to be a list of provisions. "Do you have any idea how difficult it is to find furs in a place like this, the poor sod I bought them from must never have seen so much gold in his life -"

"Good," he says absently, wondering if he has time to dart below and further arm himself before Namor shows up. "We're going, our guide will be here presently. I'll be in my cabin, let me know when he gets here." He starts to stride across the deck, but then he stops and swears.

"Logan," he says, "Please be so kind as to fetch the good Doctor Strange a cask of the wine from Seville. You remember where it is."

"He's not a real doctor," Logan grumbles, but he goes.

* * *

"I will not be summoned to suit the whims of mortals," Namor says, standing in the great cabin.

He's not dripping, but he's not wearing anything, either, just his ridiculous green scales and his gold. He might be a statue, Anthony thinks, he'd make a wonderful figurehead. They wouldn't ever have to go up against Fury and his band of fools ever again, they'd just see Namor's scowling face and sail away, repulsed.

"And yet, here you are," Anthony says, throwing his astrolabe down onto the charts he's been examining.

"What do you require of me," Namor says acidly.

"Not even a 'hello?' Or perhaps, 'I'm sorry I tried to drown you the last time you set foot in my palace?'"

"I'm sorry," Namor says coolly, crossing his broad arms over his bare chest, "I wasn't aware we were on speaking terms."

Anthony cannot abide Atlanteans.

"I need to get to Labrador," he says, deciding to be the bigger man. "Or, more precisely, North and East of Labrador, it's some little island no one's mapped yet off the coast of Greenland. Those are your waters, I need your charts if you can _manage _it, I know how beleaguered you must be, having swum up from the bottom where you _feed -_"

"Let me make this abundantly clear," Namor says, shorter than usual, "I am here because I owe Stephen a favor. I have no interest in your foolish expedition, so you would do well not to bait me before I have graciously extended my assistance."

"Well," Anthony says with a tight smile. "Let's not mince words, shall we?"

Namor sits himself in the chair opposite Anthony's, looking ridiculously out of place amongst wood and steel and candlewax, and drags the chart around until it's facing him. He studies it for a moment, and then pushes back. "These are terrible."

"They are not," Anthony says. "They're far more accurate than those rags the Spanish have been using, I stole most of them from Reed Richards, he's the best cartographer in England -"

"Your charts are abysmal," Namor says flatly. "I cannot be bothered to shepherd you through the North Atlantic, I have real duties to attend to -"

"I'm not asking for an escort, Stephen said you had the charts –"

"I'm not _giving_ you charts from my own stores, you're going to _sell _them, you'll be the ruin of my entire empire -"

"I'm hurt that you'd think that of me," Anthony says. "You can, you just don't _want _to –"

"I'm going to shorten the sea," Namor says, looking thoroughly bored. "You'll get there, and I'll be rid of you, and I will no longer be in the good Doctor's debt."

Anthony frowns, because he has learned to be wary of those who command forces that science cannot suitably explain for him. "What does that mean?" he says, more than slightly discouraged that he isn't going to get a look at the charts from the Atlantean throne room. "I didn't ask for your magic, I asked for your damned charts-"

"It means," Namor says, "that I will set you on your course, send you directly to the icefield in question, and you will never bother me like this again."

"Fine," Anthony says, pretending not to be delighted that this won't be a 6 month voyage after all. "Don't strain yourself."

"You need to be muzzled," Namor says.

* * *

"Why are we doing this," Logan says, as Namor circles their hull for the fifth time like a porpoise.

"Would you rather spend 6 months dodging the Navy, making our way up the coast? This will be faster, you always complain when we can't make port often enough for you to go strapping about on a regular basis -"

"Anthony," Namor interrupts, coming to hover over the bowsprit.

Anthony sets a hand on the wheel and gestures broadly with the other. "Yes, sweet Prince?"

Namor looks decidedly less pleased with him all the time, and he scowls as he instructs. "Stay to this course," he says. "Do not deviate, even in the slightest, and my magic will carry you to the north. Do not trouble me again." And then he's diving down in a graceful arc, lost under the surface with a spray of tepid seawater, no further explanation given.

Thor ambles over and leans out over the side. "I do not think he favors you, Anthony."

* * *

He's trying to decide whether or not Namor has been putting on a show for the past hour purely to make a fool of him when he realizes the ship isn't rocking beneath his feet.

He dashes out and up the stairs, two by two, to where James is managing the wheel, looking utterly alarmed. Clinton is scrambling down the rigging with Peter hot on his heels, and Caroline is standing on the bow side next to Thor, looking nervously at the water breaking on their hull.

Except it isn't breaking on the hull.

To their left, and right, is the calmest patch of sea Anthony has seen outside the horse latitudes. They're perfectly level, perfectly upright – but the sea beneath them, is _moving_. It's slow, barely even noticeable, like they're stuck in a swift channel between two pools.

"Has this been going on long?" he asks.

"No, just now," Clinton says. "Why is the horizon moving?"

Anthony doesn't understand magic.

He looks back over the side, and the stream of water bracketing them is moving faster now, rushing audibly past, while they stay centered between two calm little ribbons of blue sea.

"I haven't an inkling," Anthony says, wishing he wasn't alarmed, and then there's roaring in his ears, and the swiftwater is a _torrent_, now, welling up to either side of them, bearing them along. They're moving, impossibly fast, but they're the _only_ thing moving – Anthony could ostensibly shuck his clothes and jump in for a swim if it pleased him and he dove out far enough, the water to either side of their little _Maiden_-sized belt is so placid. The sky blurs, too; there's no horizon, just dull smears of blue and brown and white from every side -

James is yelling something at him, gesturing wildly up at the billowing sails without Peter to tend to them, but Anthony can't hear anything, he can't tear his eyes away from the ribbons of frothing white bearing them along –

And then it stops, just as suddenly as it's started, and the torrent recedes back into the rest of the sea.

The sun hangs low on the horizon in the east, casting the eerily beautiful garden of ice and water into perfect, glorious, relief. No one is speaking, no one is working, and they all watch the water still and resolve into a breathtaking sea of crystals resting on the surface, tiny white ice flowers like a meadow in the midst of massive, jagged chunks rising from the glassy surface. The coast is a few miles aft, their path marked, true to Namor's word, by two enormous triangular ice formations.

Anthony sucks in a breath of terribly cold, crisp air, and turns to his crew, a buzz of something like anticipation and not unlike fear humming low in his belly.

"Well," he says. "What did I tell you?"

* * *

Anthony decides it's prudent to wear his armor. He snaps on the plates, shivering in his cabin, leather upon finely wrought steel, burnished and painted in dark red paint with gold filigree. He dons his coat, and the furs Jan's left on his bed – something surprisingly soft, in a dark, rich, brown – before slinging on his baldric. He straps a pistol around his thigh, stuffs another into his belt, and his dagger, always, he slips into the sheath hidden in his boot. He fears that such a fabled treasure will not be so easily claimed, or else someone would have surely retrieved it already.

Though, he thinks, as he starts undoing the knots for the longboat with burning fingers, it is equally possible no one else has mustered the gall to attempt such an expedition.

Clinton agrees to stay onboard and keep watch up in the nest. Anthony is sure he'd rather be a packmule with the rest of them if there was any sort of wind at all, but it's eerily still here, the sun slung low over the horizon, the moon rising pale in the azure sky. Peter, of course, agrees to stay with Clinton, he says he's worried about ice buildup and the ropes snapping if he doesn't oil them, and Anthony is forced to agree.

They wrap themselves in the furs Jan has procured, and they all look ridiculous, except for Thor, who looks magnificent and oddly suited to this element. He wears less than the rest of them, and Anthony chalks it up to his strong Nordic blood. Logan emerges from below looking like a gigantic wolf, wrapped head to toe in grey-black furs, his bladed gauntlets bolted tight around his gigantic forearms, a pickaxe slung over his shoulders. Janet stays behind, not terribly eager to be tromping about in the snow (and the goats need to be fed) but Caroline looks thrilled, and she struts up on deck with a hand on her sword, one of the French hats with the tails jammed onto her head, the cold dotting her cheeks with bursts of pink. James looks out, over the water, looks at everything, and Anthony reminds himself that this is new for all of them except Thor. Possibly Logan, but he isn't one to speak of his past.

They take one of the longboats, Logan and Thor row. There's no real beach, no real _waves_, as if they'd come to rest in some huge glacial lake, utterly still beneath the broad sky, and Anthony cannot shake the feeling that he's looking upon a place that's never before been met by human eyes. He jumps out first, the snow crunching under his boots, and they haul the boat up onto the ice shelf.

The map Zemo has drawn for him is surprisingly detailed. The landscape, though no forest or moor or mountain range, is far from flat – it ebbs and rises, long stretches of lonely white and flat ice shining in the rising morning sun, the sky wide and bright overhead. The wind whips at their faces, and Anthony is struck by the overwhelming loneliness of the place.

Thor places a hand on his shoulder.

"Do not worry," he says. "The beast will not look for us here unless we give it reason to."

Anthony has been trying not to think about the giant green beast that's been fabled to wander Greenland (so named, he suspects) but leave it to Thor to bring up the only thing that could possibly make this venture more ill-advised _for all the others to hear_.

"What beast," Caroline asks interestedly.

"A giant wolf," Anthony lies, glaring at Thor, who's gone off in front, swinging his ridiculous mallet about like he's craving the exertion. Anthony thinks he'll have him haul the disc back, he has no idea how large it will be, or how heavy, but Thor does so lend himself to the task of carrying heavy things.

They follow the path Zemo has drawn out, through a series of small frozen lakes, over a measure of tundra and up along the coast – inaccessible by boat because of the frequency and saturation of smaller bergs that would tear right through their hull if they tried to anchor there. The haul in question is supposedly laid somewhere in the vicinity of some larger glacial formations rising from the sea at the water's edge.

"Where are we going," Caroline says, after they've been walking in silence for at least the length of a watch, through rises and dips and what looks like a boulderfield with ice instead of rocks. Thor has taken off his furs (giving them to Caroline), like a madman, and he gleams in the sun like a god while the rest of them shiver in their ample furs.

"Not much farther," Anthony says, rotating the map again.

Logan sniffs the air like a beast, and heads off to their right, over a slight rise bracketed by larger blocks of ice, balanced impossibly precariously like pillars that catch blinding sheets of light.

"Where are you going," Anthony calls.

"Metal," Logan says by way of explanation.

They scramble over the hill to catch up, and they see, as they come over the crest of the hill, Logan is standing down below them, in front of a massive formation, two men tall at least, scrubbing a hand over the surface.

"Look," he says, and there's something glinting a few inches from the surface, a startlingly bright, shining blue.

* * *

It's what they're looking for. He knows it, as soon as Logan's hand drops away, and he feels the rush of vindication in his veins, the promise of lore and treasure and payment.

They all grab pickaxes, and they go about carving their spoils from the face, and Anthony longs to run his hands over the metal – so _lustrous_, it's like nothing he's ever seen, and he puts his back into it and works in silence alongside his away party.

Peter comes looking for them, after a while, and Anthony is torn between annoyance that he didn't stay on the ship and admiration that he managed to follow their tracks, which are surely faint by now, given the snow that's been falling gently for a few hours.

"I thought you might need this," he says, and he deposits a length of gossamer, silvery rope on top of the bag with the pickaxes.

"Well," Logan says, from where he's perched on top of the ice block. "Was this part of the plan?"

"Was what," Anthony says absently, from where he's been hacking away in the front to get at the disc.

"The body," Logan says.

James looks at him as if to say, "I told you so," and Anthony blinks, drops his pickaxe and scrambles up to where Caroline and Logan are peering down into the crevasse they've made.

There's a man, frozen, in the ice, and he looks as if he could have died yesterday.

There's not much of him visible, just the side of his face, the wide expanse of his cheek and his jaw. His arm's brought up next to his ear, covered in tattered green cloth, a strange red glove barely visible on his thumb. His skin is pale, paler so than Jan's or Caroline's, his hair impossibly light for any Navy man, and Anthony wonders if he was lost in one of the Nordic expeditions.

His face is noble.

Anthony swears, and tries to decide if this is why Stephen didn't want him to come here, if Zemo knew, if _Namor_ knows, and then he decides it doesn't matter because he _wants_ the payment badly enough to drag this body back to the Caribbean in a block of ice if he has to.

"We're taking it," he declares. "We'll drag him behind the ship, _PETER!_"

"What?" he yells from several meters below them.

"Build me a sling," he says. "We've got some additional cargo to bring back with us."

"It's going to rot," Caroline says.

"No," Anthony says, "We'll keep it in the ice, we'll just carve the block bigger, Namor can take us straight back to Martinique." It's not entirely a lie, Namor can – but this was not part of their agreement, and Anthony bites his lip and stares at the blond creature in the ice and dearly hopes the Prince is feeling less than fickle today. The last thing he wants is to be indebted to Namor, for any reason. But this body, this _corpse–_

There is entirely too much resting upon this business arrangement for Anthony to return armed with anything less than the entirety of the contents of the ice.

His crew stares at him like he's gone mad.

"Come on, then," he says, sliding down and picking his axe back up.

It takes all of them to drag it back to the boat, each of them dragging a length of rope as the block slides along through the snow behind them. They've freed the disc first, in a smaller piece that Anthony insists upon putting in the boat, but the body – the _bearer_, Anthony thinks, it must be – is tied in his net to the back of the longboat and floats along behind them, bound in his glass sarcophagus. It's maddening, really – his face is visible now that they've chipped him out, but it's distorted, bending and blurred beneath inches of deep blue-green ice.

Anthony wonders how he came to rest in such a place.

"Who do you think he was?" Caroline says, evidently just as curious, her gaze fixed behind them on the corpse.

"He was a warrior," Thor says, his muscles straining as he pulls the oar back, and Anthony thinks that he sounds a bit melancholic.

"Was he," Anthony says mildly. "Where did he _come_ from? There's no wreck around." He says it with the practiced ease he's learnt in court, as if he can't be bothered with the real explanation, as if it's a mild curiousity and nothing more.

As if it's not consuming him where he sits in the longboat.

Logan shrugs. "We'll never know," he says, and Anthony seethes with internalized wonder and frustration and curiosity that may never be sated.

James is staring at him.

"Why are you looking at me like that," Anthony sighs, aching to the bone from swinging an axe again and again.

"Did you know we'd find this?" James murmurs, his brown eyes boring into Anthony's blue.

"No," he admits. "I thought Zemo wanted the disc. He probably _does_ want the disc, I'm not even sure he knew of the body."

"Then why did we take it?" James presses.

"I don't know," Anthony snaps. "He said 'bring me what's in the ice,' so I thought it prudent to cover our tails."

"You should have let him rest," Thor says quietly.

Anthony glances back at the body they're dragging through the freezing water, and down at the shining piece of metal at his feet still half-embedded in ice, and he feels impossibly, inexplicably guilty.

"The poor sod's dead. Just row," he says.

* * *

"I request an audience with his Majesty, Prince of Atlantis, the Sub-Mariner, Namor, etcetera."

It's the fifth time he's said it this watch. He's hanging from the bowsprit like a fool in a hastily concocted harness – after the first three failed attempts, Logan had suggested he get closer to the water. It's cold, bitterly cold now that the sun has gone down, and Anthony is vastly displeased.

"Do you have any other suggestions," he hisses up at Logan.

Logan shrugs, and leans back as Anthony begins to scramble back up. "He doesn't much like me either."

Anthony's feet have barely touched down on the wood when there's a splash off the starboard bow.

"Finally," he mutters. "Namor, I know, but just listen -"

"You have no shame," Namor hisses, coming to settle inches in front of him, hovering in the chill air, his wings beating furiously in the still night.

"That's – no, I certainly have shame," Anthony says. "Have I done something to offend you? More than usual?" Anthony knows how fickle Namor can be, it's nothing new, but they're far from port and it's deathly cold, and Anthony wants to get back and get paid, he needs Namor to agree to this -

"I cannot be bothered to rush to your side every time you decide you require assistance," he says icily, and Anthony begins to let go of any hope he might have had that Namor would be in good enough spirits to grant his request.

"Namor," he tries again, "Do not think me ungracious, I recognize I have caused you great inconvenience in summoning you so. But you know," he says, daring to glance up at Namor, who is hovering with his arms crossed, a few inches in front of him, "you _know_ I would not ask you unless I had any other choice. The circumstances of our expedition have changed, we have – certain _sensitive_ cargo that needs to be delivered with all haste. I understand this was not part of our arrangement, but -"

"No," Namor cuts in, "it was not."

"What can I offer you," Anthony says, scowling.

Namor laughs. "I am a prince," he declares, "And you have nothing to offer me, as you might once have, Anthony."

"Namor," he says, and he isn't pleading, he's not. "Moving water is nothing to you."

"It is a favor to you," Namor says coolly.

"Bear us to Martinique and you will have my gratitude and my _word -_"

"Your word means little these days," Namor says airily, "I will not lend my magic on credit to a man who cannot keep his own house in order. You are wasting my time."

Anthony loses his composure, then. "If you leave us here, I will hunt you down, walk into your own throne room, spear you, and roast you over a spit like a freshwater trout," he hisses.

Namor laughs, and his voice rings, bright and deep, sounding across the icy sea. "Doubtful. Do not summon me again, Anthony, I will not be so gracious when next we meet."

He dives into the sea, and Anthony swears violently.

* * *

Anthony is distracted.

It's not his fault, really, it's the _thing, _the thing he's come for, the disc shining in the corner by the door, gleaming brighter as each layer of ice melts away and drains out beneath the door. It's magnificent, really, maybe two feet wide, and perfectly, _perfectly _round. Anthony's worked with metal himself, and he knows the effort it must have taken to produce something to geometrically uniform – it's dreadfully hard to do without some sort of device, and as far as he's seen, next-to-impossible to do by hand. The ice is almost gone, and he can almost see the entire thing. The back, the concave side, has been burnished to a silvery shine, two leather thongs set into it with no discernable anchor point and no tool marks at all. The front is ringed in color, red, and then the silver-white again, red again, and then a five-point star set into a circle of deep, deep blue.

He's not sure he could have produced such a thing himself, even if his laboratories were still his own.

James nudges him under the table, and he tears his eyes away from the mysterious thing and they go back to poring over the few charts he has of the latitudes North of Boston this side of the Atlantic. The rest of them are loading their prize onto the deck so Peter can fashion a proper sling that will hold up in current and weather.

It isn't so dire, really, the tricky part was knowing where to drop anchor without overshooting or crawling up and down the coast of Greenland for weeks, looking for an island no one has ever been to. Now, it's just a matter of avoiding icebergs and skating Southwest around the hump and back into the familiar (if hostile) harbours of the colonies.

"At least we're stocked," James points out.

"Yes," Anthony says. "I'd have had to grovel had we not been."

"Were you not?" James says, and Anthony resists the urge to throw his calipers at his head.

"Deference is nothing Namor merits," Anthony says, rolling up the chart they've been looking at. "I'll take this watch, you need sleep. Thank god I had her careened last we were in Nassau, we'd be here all bloody month. The water's going to last a lot longer, at least, until we get down past Massachussetts Bay, and by then we'll be able to restock if we're clever about it, we'll dress the part. They won't recognize us, the farthest North I've been was New York, and that was years ago, when."

He stops, because he realizes how painful it is to say out loud, and James frowns. "Anthony," he says. "Namor is petty enough to set you up, truss you up in a bow for the _Admiral, _whom he _likes_, by the way -"

"Nicholas is no longer a military man, you're only bolstering his ego every time you refer to him as _admiral_," Anthony says, scowling, drawing the word out like it's something foul in his mouth.

"Well, be that as it may, he is still the power in the waters south of the Carolinas, if he gets wind of this and ambushes us on our way back, you can bid your chance to settle this business with Stane farewell -"

"He's not going to get his hands on anything in my holds," Anthony says forcefully. "Zemo is going to pay us a _million pounds_, James," Anthony says. "_I_could be an admiral with a million pounds. I'll have all of my ships back, _you'll _have a ship -"

"Why did he hire you," James presses. "You're not an explorer. _Richards_ is an explorer -"

"Because I'm the best, James," he says, bristling. "It doesn't _matter_. All he wants is that." He nods to the corner, at the strangely painted disc, almost entirely free ice now.

"And that fellow in the ice?" James says quietly.

"I don't know," Anthony mumbles. "He didn't mention the fellow in the ice."

"Well, what are we going to do with him," James says.

"I suppose we're going to drag him until he melts, and then I haven't the faintest idea," Anthony says, wrapping himself in a coat. "It is winter, at least, I don't – I'll come up with something. Dog watch is yours, James, I'll see you in a few -"

There is a thunderous crash, and then Logan's surly shouting and Caroline's shrieking, and Anthony and James look at each other and beat a hasty retreat out the French doors.

* * *

"Fuck the lot of you," Clint is saying, "It's Peter's fault."

Peter looks suitably betrayed. He's toeing at the mess of the block of ice that's fallen from their hastily constructed crane and onto the deck with the ungodly crack that carried to Anthony's cabin.

"Well, this is disastrous," Anthony is saying quietly. "Now it's going to melt long before we even get to Boston, how the _hell_ are we supposed to haul it now."

They've dropped him. The crane has snapped, right in two, rotten wood, or brittle, from the cold, Anthony can't be sure, but it doesn't _matter_, because he's staring at half a metric ton of ice shards glittering on his deck. And the _man_, the man in the ice, is lying there, separated from his coffin upon impact.

And Anthony looks, then, at his face, and he can't stop looking.

The man is lying on his back, and his clothes are strange, fitted closely to the shapes of his limbs, _soft_, the seams meticulously sewn on the dark green. And beneath, _beneath_ the tears in his jacket, and the ones in his strange breeches, there's _blue_. Anthony knows how much dye of that color costs. He's magnificent, really, almost a full head taller than any of them, except maybe Rhoades, and perhaps Clinton, strongly muscled, his jaw strong and proud. But he's young, and there's something in his face, something so innocent and sad that Anthony wants to throw the whole thing out and sail back to Martinique and tell Zemo he can't have his body.

Anthony crouches down and the leather of his boots squeaks as he does so, and he lifts the strange medallions that are hanging from the man's neck on a silver chain. They're flat, and there's – writing on them, English, but strange, the letters uniformly rendered and etched into the surface with such precision as Anthony has never seen.

"Steven G Rogers, 987654320," Anthony reads to himself with nothing less than wonderment. "What sort of a man is given a number?"

"We could refreeze him," Carol suggests, frowning, evidently unconcerned with this man's origins or history or handsome, handsome face. Always the pragmatist, Caroline. "We could fashion some – some kind of tank, build it with wood, seal it with tar, we could fill it with water and let it set for a few days on shore, and then pop him out again and drag him like you wanted -"

"We're not _freezing _him again, it's going to take forever to freeze a block of that size, and besides, where are we going to get the water?" says Clinton.

"Anthon claims that saltwater freezes," Caroline says indignantly, and Anthony thinks he should be doing something, flogging them for mucking this up, telling them that yes, saltwater will freeze, just look at the ice flowers, you idiots, but he can't tear his eyes away from the dead man with frost on his eyebrows, his lips tinged with blue.

"Anthony," Thor says softly. "Bury him at sea."

"Look at his boots," Logan says, toeing at them, and they're strange, too, black leather, but so evenly cut, and the _soles_, firm and thick and not even sewn on –

"Could you embalm him?" Anthony says, turning to Logan.

"I could," Logan says, "But he'll start to smell in a couple of weeks."

Anthony shrivels his nose in distaste, because plague is the last thing he wants right now. "It's not a bad idea," he decides finally, still looking at the man's skin, slick with frost, and white as cream. "We'll do what Caroline suggested. Cannibalize some of the orange crates, we can tie them up in the hold with rope instead. We can spare the tar, we'll restock once we get to Boston." He sighs, runs a gloved hand across his forehead. "We're going to be here another week, now, it's going to take 3 days at least for the water to freeze once the box is tarred –"

The rest of his words are cut out by a yelp, as Peter jumps an entire foot back from the man's form, and then Caroline is drawing her pistol prematurely and Clinton is gasping and Logan is swearing and Anthony isn't breathing.

Because the man's eyes are open, and he's sucking in air like a beached whale.

"He's alive," Thor says in wonderment, and then Anthony starts to yell.


	3. Fools Rush In

"This is the most ridiculous thing you've ever done," Logan says. "Look at him."

Anthony can't do anything _but_ look, it seems.

They've moved him in front of the stove, rigged up an flimsy little hammock in the galley, laid him out like a glistening statue before the flame. His skin has been steadily changing from pale to less pale to positively ruddy, now, and he snuffles and shudders with his head and feet hanging absurdly out the sides of the sling. Logan keeps raising the man's eyelids to see if he'll respond, but he just lies there, moaning every once in a while as sensation returns to his limbs. Anthony suspects he's in terrible pain, but there's nothing he can do but watch as the frost over his skin melts and drips away and makes a mess of the galley floor.

James is wending his way under beams and around barrels to come to rest behind him. "Three days if the wind doesn't change," he murmurs as Logan squats on an empty crate in front of him and unscrews a pot of herbs. "This is more than we bargained for."

"Why is he alive?" Anthony asks, turning on his heels. "Why did he have to be _alive_?"

"We aren't bounty hunters," James says.

"We're whatever we need to be," Anthony says. "For all we know, he's some long-lost relative of Zemo's, some obscure branch of his lineage." He sinks down onto another crate, bone-weary and wishing they were somewhere warm.

"Fine," James says. Picking his battles. "I'm going back up. I want to see us through the straits. Thor's on the wheel, but I'd rather be – "

"Go," Anthony says, "I'll watch." James darts back into the blackness between lanterns, and Anthony turns his eyes to the poor sod trembling in the hammock, his cheeks flushed red with life and pain.

"Nothin' to do 'til he's warm again," Logan says noncommittally. "Might be addled. It'll be hours, at least."

"I want to be here," Anthony says, thumbing the medallions he's stolen from around his neck. "I want to speak with him when he wakes. If he wakes," he adds softly, thinking of what a waste it would be if he didn't. He looks like a god.

Logan snorts. "Waste your time, then," he says. "I'm a butcher, not a nursemaid."

Anthony kicks his feet up and tilts his hat down over his eyes.

* * *

Anthony wakes to shouting.

He tumbles off his crate, and his body is moving before he's even made the conscious decision to wake up. He's on his feet inside five seconds, hand on the hilt of his sword. The cabin is dim, still, as all but one of the lanterns Logan had left have burnt out since Anthony fell asleep on his crate.

There's enough light, though, to catch on Logan's unsheathed blades.

Logan is standing, feet apart, teeth bared, his gauntlets gleaming in the candlelight, because apparently everything goes to pot the minute Anthony fails to supervise them for a minute. The man in the ice is no longer in the ice, he's very much awake, panting like he's sprinted a mile, brandishing a knife he must have filched from the galley at Logan.

Anthony honestly can't decide who he thinks would win.

The man is too tall to stand up fully. He's a sight, his strange green garment limp and sodden and rent from his shoulder to his waist, but there's more, underneath, something shining and _blue_. It's catching the light, gleaming like Logan's blades, and it's metal, metal that's clinging to the incredible mass of his arms and chest. Anthony watches his musculature shift as the cord in his neck tenses and does his best not to leer too conspicuously. That would be inappropriate, circumstances considering.

"What is this?" the man demands. His voice is deep, sonorous in his chest. "Where am I," he insists.

"Ah," Anthony says from behind him, raising his sword in warning. "That would be my ship."

He jerks around, apparently not having seen Anthony rise from his perch. The rest of them take the opportunity to rally behind Logan; Caroline's drawing her sword and Clinton is aiming a crossbow. The man's eyes are open, wide with panic, Anthony sees now, but still, the clearest, most delicate shade of blue – lighter than his own, sparkling and confused. The man pants, trembles on unsteady limbs like a newborn colt, and his eyes dart to the knife in his hand.

"Don't," Anthony says, confident in his swordsmanship, if reluctant to get into a scuffle below deck. "I would win," he says.

The man looks at the knife in his hand, at the gleam of Anthony's sword and Logan's blades, considering, and then he _throws _it like it's nothing at all. It narrowly misses Anthony's head, even with him ducking, and lodges deep in the beam over his left shoulder.

It's a bit too skilled for Anthony to really be entirely comfortable.

The man tries to dart off to his right the minute it's left his hand, into the darkness between them and toward the stairs. He's too big, though, he's got piss-poor sea-legs, and Anthony sees it a mile before it happens.

Still, when the man hits his forehead on one of the low-hanging beams with a crack and falls to the floor unconscious, it's more of a relief than he cares to admit. Anthony kicks the knife away and sheathes his sword.

Clinton is cackling with laughter.

"Put him in my cabin," Anthony says, torn between amusement and shock that the man is any sort of condition to be walking and waving a knife at them. "And find some irons, for god's sake, I don't need him rampaging again when he wakes up."

Clinton hefts him up, slinging his crossbow back over his shoulder. "Blimey, he's heavy," he says, and he plods over to the railing and up the stairs, the Man's arms dangling over his back.

"You can go be a doctor now," Anthony says to a scowling Logan. "Get him out of those soaking clothes and keep him warm and give him broth or whatever you do when someone's been frozen indefinitely. Don't get rid of them, though, his clothes," he adds, as an afterthought, "I want a look at that strange metal shirt." Logan grunts in what Anthony has come to take as assent and traipses along after Clinton, puffing away on a roll of tobacco.

The bell is sounding, but Caroline must not be on watch, because she just leans against one of the beams, slotting her sword back into its sheath. "You're very subtle," she says smugly.

"I'm sorry?" he says.

"You think he's pretty," she clarifies.

"That's ridiculous, Caroline," Anthony blusters, because he absolutely does.

"Mm," she says, her mouth quirking up in an amused little smirk. "He's your sort."

"I do not have a sort,'" he protests, hanging the knife back in its slot above the galley workstation.

"You do," she says, as she shimmies up the ladder. "Strong and fair and blue, blue eyes."

Anthony stares mutely after her, standing about in the dark, annoyed by his own transparency. The bell sounds again, and he swipes an orange from the bin before hurrying up to the quarterdeck to relieve James. Master Rogers will have to wait, for the time being, he thinks with something like disappointment.

It's no matter. He has a ship to see to. It doesn't do to swoon like a fool. He doesn't even know the man.

He's probably mad, anyway, and Anthony's had enough of those for a lifetime.

* * *

His name is Steven.

He only knows this because the man named Logan thrusts a set of metal tags into his manacled hands, and Steven chooses to believe, because he has to have a name.

_He doesn't remember._

There's nothing. He can't remember faces of people he knows, he can't come up with the address where he grew up, he doesn't know what he looks like or the color of his mother's hair. He doesn't have a past.

He wonders what the G stands for. It occurs to him that only soldiers have metal tags (dog tags, he remembers), and he doesn't know how he feels about that. He'd remember, wouldn't he? He'd remember the experience of war. He'd remember killing men. He'd see horrible things when he closed his eyes. But there it is, the shredded pile of Army-green next to him on the floor, the gun shining in its leather holster, the wide expanse of _nothing_ when he closes his eyes and tries to conjure something up.

In the end, he decides he must be hallucinating, because all he can think is _I'm on a pirate ship._

The floor is tilting beneath him. He can't ignore the sway of it, the pitching of his immediate surroundings. It's too unsettling. Alien. That on its own is bad enough, but they've shackled his hands together too, stolen his clothes. He's on a fairly nice bed, at least, in a cabin lit only by candles, the smell of cigar smoke thick in the air. He's naked under the furs they've piled on top of him, but it's not nearly enough, he can still feel it, phantom prickles of ice crawling up his skin, and he shudders in his damp little nest and swallows down the terror that's thick in his throat.

He thinks that maybe he can't be a soldier, because if he were, he wouldn't be terrified.

A pirate ship.

Which is ridiculous. Whoever he is, he's fairly certain that pirates only figure in history books. This is the stuff of a schoolyard fantasy. This is a ship, and there aren't ships like this anymore, not where he's from (_when_, he doesn't let his brain correct), and the one thing he's very certain of is that he doesn't belong here, this isn't his time, this is the vaguest rendering of a history he'd never learned properly, a distant dream of ships and captains and pirates from a childhood _he doesn't remember_ –

There's a pirate staring at him.

He's been sitting there for half an hour, now, folding his arms, frowning at him, watching him shiver and blush and drift in and out of consciousness. He's – striking, devastatingly handsome, really, and he flushes to think it, but he's covered in furs, so it's fine. He's young, shorter than he is – he'd been able to stand below deck (_below deck_, Jesus, he's going insane) better than he had – tanned and dark-haired and blue-eyed. He sits with impossible ease, his jacket thrown carelessly over the back of his chair, his shirt falling open across his chest, the faintest edge of a jagged scar visible under his collar. He's wearing a hat, and these ridiculous boots, one leg kicked up over his knee, dressed like he's from a Gilbert and Sullivan act.

"This is a firearm," the man says. "I've never seen anything like it. Where did you get it?" His voice is smooth, accented, a lovely baritone – _Great Britain_, Steven thinks immediately, _why _does he think that, he doesn't speak with an accent, why would he have been to London? And then he remembers, _soldier_, and his throat goes dry again.

"It's remarkable, really. The charge, the powder – all contained in a single brass casing. And it _re-loads_ itself. _Extraordinary._"

"Yeah, it's a gun," Steven grates out, angry and tired. He doesn't know where he got it, but apparently this man with his clever blue eyes is bright enough to take it apart and figure out what makes it work. "I don't know how I got it. I already told your doctor I don't remember."

"We found you," the man says, his tone carefully measured. "Frozen, in a block of ice, south of Greenland. You're quite the puzzle, Steven Rogers."

Steven has heard this already, and he doesn't have anything to say about it this time around, either.

"How could you possibly have ended up in an ice floe?" the man presses. He leans forward on his knees, watches Steven like he's a particularly interesting picture show.

"I don't know," Steven says. "I don't remember."

"It's more of a rhetorical question," the man says absently.

"Are you going to shoot me?" Steven asks.

The man's mouth twitches unmistakably, and then he frowns. "Am I going to shoot you," he repeats, clearly bemused, as if it pleases him to roll the words around on his tongue. "Will you give me reason to?" he murmurs, and Steve finds he can't look away from his startling blue eyes.

Steve slowly, slowly shakes his head. "I wouldn't dare," he says, as calmly as one can say that to a pirate.

The man sets the gun on the table. It's pointed at Steve.

He wonders, idly, if he's to be sold into slavery.

"We found this alongside you," the man continues, his eyes glimmering with something insatiable. He reaches behind the chair to bring up a shining silver disc, painted in red, white, and blue, a star shining in the middle. "Any idea what it does?"

Steve feels a tug, a distant familiarity, buried and crushed beneath layers and layers of maddening, gaping emptiness. He feels like he should say something_._

"Do you know what it is?" the man presses.

"No," Steve says, annoyed. "Looks like a shield."

"Yes, I'd gathered as much," the man says impatiently. "Perhaps you can tell me what it's made of."

"Metal?" Steven offers.

"I couldn't make something like this if I had the best forge in England," the man says, something sad and faraway in his eyes, and he's so sincere, it's so _genuine_, and Steven doesn't think he could make this whole thing up if he tried –

"What year is it," he says, the words heavy on his tongue. Anthony is looking at him, _staring_ at him, and Steven feels cold, colder than he felt a few hours ago when he was half-awake and too stiff to move, on the edges of consciousness, because he smells the damp fur against his body, the grime thick in the air, burning wax and _salt_ and filth –

It's all suffocatingly real.

"1716," the man says, and then Steven is laughing hysterically, and he can't stop.

* * *

Anthony watches Steven Rogers choke out laughs that might be sobs, and for the first time this voyage, he thinks perhaps he should have listened to Stephen. _Meddling in things that don't concern you_, he'd said.

He almost feels guilty.

"What year do you come from," he says quietly, when he's stopped, when he's staring at the ceiling again. His brain is running wild, he's thinking of Atlantis, and if Namor's kingdom is so well hidden, why could there not be more? No one on the other side of the Atlantic knows of the Northwest passage; but why could there not have been a kingdom, somewhere, in the far North, hidden away from Thor's kinsmen by magic or cleverness –

"You wouldn't believe me," Steven says, terribly softly. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

Anthony opens his mouth to say something, means to say there are a great many things he'd believe, given the chance, but it feels wrong to press this man, just now. He looks so vulnerable, lying there – he's strong, certainly, but he's young, there's such care worn into his face and not a line on his skin, and Anthony wonders what he's seen in his time to carve him so.

He wonders if leaving him in the ice would have been a kindness, and banishes the thought as soon as it's come.

There's nothing to be done now, anyway.

"I'm sorry," he says quietly, and he means it. "Perhaps you'll tell me of it at length, later."

Steven looks at him blankly, his eyes full of some secret despair, and Anthony is vastly uncomfortable, so he shrugs on his jacket, throws another fur on top of Steven, and straightens up. "Give me your hands," he says, all business, and Steven considers him for a moment and works his hands out from the layer upon layer of furs they've been resting under. Anthony fishes in his pocket and comes up with a key, undoes the lock and drops the irons to the floor with a clank.

Steven draws his hands back and nestles under the furs again, looking for all the world like he's about to be caged.

"I'm not in the habit of taking prisoners," Anthony murmurs, "But if I catch you threatening my crew with a knife again, I'll not hesitate to put you in the brig." Steven stiffens, and he looks so pathetic, Anthony can't rouse anything but pity for him. "There's no reason for you not to rest, now, I suppose," he continues with a sigh. "It's my watch anyway, so please, avail yourself of my quarters for as long as you're able. My surgeon says you'll be right as a trivet, given a few days."

Steven looks at him with wide, blank, blue eyes, and Anthony wants to _stay_, which is foolish and absurd and – he has things to do. "I'll see what I can have them send up for you for supper," he says, and turns to go, because he's spent too much time on this man already, today, he musn't make this a habit, it's unprofessional and foolish, to swoon so –

"I didn't get your name," Steven grunts, as his hand is on the door latch, and Anthony stops, because how can he _not._

"Captain Anthony Edward Stark," he says, whirling around, dipping in the briefest of bows. It's showmanship, he knows, but it brings a smirk to Steven's face, and it warms him through.

"Captain," Steven says, because stroking this man's ego seems to be the thing to do if he's to get any answers. "Could I," he starts, and flushes a lovely rose, as he ekes a hand out to gesture at the ragged pile of green on the floor. "If it's not too much trouble," he finishes helplessly.

Anthony does his sincere best to hide his smirk.

"I'll have Jan fetch you something, shall I?" Anthony turns to hide the way his cheeks are flushing scarlet under the brim of his hat and hurries up to find James.

He needs to stay as far away from this man as he possibly can.

* * *

Steven wakes to sunlight streaming into the cabin, and he blinks the sleep from his eyes, terribly content and terribly warm, the smell of smoke and tar and salt thick in his nose, and –

He sits bolt upright when he remembers where he is.

The Captain is sitting at the other end of the cabin, hunched over some sort of table. Steve can just see him past the opening where a door may have once stood, a curtain bunched up to one side. He's scratching away at something, a map, maybe, and Steven levers himself upright before he remembers he's naked. His legs are marginally unsteady, but he picks himself up and pads out to the main cabin, a fur clutched hastily around his waist. He's struck, again, by how low the ceilings are.

"Captain," Anthony says, without turning around in his chair. "You've been asleep for 3 days."

"Captain," Steven says carefully, shifting his weight awkwardly, loathe to move any further.

(Has Anthony been watching him for 3 days?)

Anthony extends an arm behind him, holding out a scrap of green cloth for Steve to snatch. _CAPTAIN ROGERS,_ it reads in black stitching, and Steven doesn't feel anything at all as he turns it over in his hands. "I don't think you can call me that," he says.

"I'll call you what I like," Anthony says evenly. "This is my ship, Captain, and you are a guest here." He puts his quill down, then, and then he's turning, and possibly leering. He can't tell if he's imagining Stark's mouth quirking up in an aborted smirk, but there's something vaguely predatory about his eyes, and Steve feels terribly vulnerable in his fur loincloth.

"Could I please get some clothes?" Steven asks, again.

Anthony considers him for a moment, and then hastily turns around. "Under the bunk," he says.

Steven pads back, feeling the Captain's eyes burn into his back. He wishes there were a real door instead of just a curtain. They're soft, strange brown pants that don't go past his knees (_breeches,_ his brain offers helpfully), a very long shirt made of what feels like linen, and a coat, dark grey, some sort of wool, silver buttons running down the front. No underwear.

He's grateful for anything at all, because it's cold, even with the box of coals someone's thought to bring in. He pulls them on and looks at his bare calves and then sees the boots they've left by the end of his bed, tall and soft, made of leather. There aren't any socks, but he slips them on over his pink toes, and it's better than barefoot. He doesn't think about how they must have managed to find something in his size while he slept. He strides back out, feeling more like a person and less like an invalid, and Anthony is leaning against the wall, waiting for him.

"Jan had to make you new ones," he says. "You're rather built."

"I'm – thank you," Steven says, and tells himself it's for the clothes and not the remark. "You should have woken me."

Anthony presses his lips together, and Steven wonders if he's said something wrong, but then he's smiling. "Nonsense," he says offhandedly, "you obviously needed the rest." His tone has grown cold, and Steven wonders if he's just being polite for politeness' sake. Anthony toes around the heavy wooden table, tips backward into a handsomely upholstered chair, and invites Stephen to do the same with a wave of his hand. "I know this must be terribly disorienting," Anthony begins again, looking at his own hands, "I mean, I don't know, I can only imagine. But."

"Yes," Steven says quietly.

"So you still don't remember," Anthony says. "How you came to rest in an ice shelf North of the colonies."

_The colonies._

"No," he says, aching to spill his heart to this man with the strange eyes, if only because he's the first real person he's been able to speak with thus far. "Not really," he amends, when Anthony scrutinizes him a bit too long for Steve to be terribly comfortable. Steven reminds himself that this man is a pirate, a man who robs other vessels and pillages and probably has few compunctions about eliminating his enemies if it's in his favor –

Anthony wants something from him, probably. Steven needs to guard his secrets carefully.

"You speak strangely," Anthony says, and Steven can't help but think that every time he looks at him, he's disassembling him with his eyes, like Steven is a puzzle to be solved, and Anthony will be the one to take him apart and learn how he works. Just like the gun. Inquiring mind, he thinks, and who _is he_, this man who's clearly brilliant and sails around in this wooden ship? "But you speak English."

"That's mine, isn't it," Steven says, gesturing at the shield where it's sitting, leaned against what looks like an old church pew, by a wide set of French doors. "If I'm a Captain, and you found that with me, it'd be mine."

"It may well have been," Anthony says, and he doesn't sound remotely apologetic. "It's what we were looking for."

Of course it was, Steven thinks.

"Were you looking for me, too?" he asks.

Anthony's face darkens, just a shade. "Just the shield," he says. "If that's what we're calling it."

"I'd like it back."

"Why?" Anthony has the air of a contrarian.

"I think it might help me remember," Steven says honestly. What he doesn't say is how he longs to hold it in his hands. How he has the strangest suspicion it would be light as air.

Anthony's fingers drum on the table. "I'll consider it," he says, and Steven knows that he has absolutely no intention of considering it. Anthony rises, then, crosses to another massive chest, rough-hewn oak with intricate patterns carved into the rim of the lid. He crouches, as gracefully as a cat might, takes something out, something silvery and blue, and it's pulling at the edges of Steven's mind again –

"If we're intuiting ownership based on proximity," Anthony says, draping the fabric over his hands, "this would also be yours."

He holds it out, and Steven takes it.

It's light in his hands, warm. Metal and leather, the same colors as the shield. _America_, he thinks, he must be an American soldier, but he's fairly certain soldiers don't wear such things. No one would wear something as garish as this into battle; who _was _he –

Anthony snatches it back. "I've examined it," he says conversationally. "It's masterful craftsmanship, just like the rest of your effects, Captain."

"What do you want with me?" Steven asks.

Anthony twirls a bit of it between his fingers. "What would _you_ want with you," Anthony asks, grinning at him, "if you were in my position, Captain? It's a mercy we've taken you aboard to begin with."

Steven's stomach feels cold.

"I'm sorry," Steven says, because the last thing he wants is to summon this man's ire, "I didn't mean to inconvenience you – "

"We're far from port," Anthony says. "A great many captains would conscript you for the trouble of saving your life." He pauses to yank the gun out of his belt and place it on the table. "A great many captains would think you a spy."

Steven stares at the gun and makes sure his hands are clearly visible.

"I'm not a spy," Steven says, and how has his life turned into this? He very well could be a spy; he'd thought he was a soldier, but how would he know, and how could he possibly be dangerous if he doesn't even know who he _is –_

"Aren't you," Anthony asks, with that same glitter in his eye. "Are you one of Fury's?" He turns the barrel so it's pointing at Steven's stomach. "One of Obadiah's, perhaps," he says, and there's no mirth at all in his voice.

"I don't know who that is," Steven says, "I'm – how could I be a spy – "

"How could you be in the ice?" Anthony counters.

"I don't know."

"Come, you must remember something of the expedition. Was it an expedition? Was that stretch of ice land, once?"

"I don't know," Steven says, "I don't – "

"Think," Anthony annunciates, "and bear in mind that I have no qualms about throwing you over the side if you lie to me, Captain."

Steven wants to say he can't think, he tries and all there is is smoke and fire and cold, long years in the cold, freezing in his bones –

"I am thinking, just, let me think," Steven says, his thoughts spinning wildly out of control. "I'm not, I don't know, was it an expedition – "

"_Think_, Captain – "

"DON'T YOU THINK I'D TELL YOU," Steven finds himself yelling. "I DON'T KNOW."

Anthony – to his credit – looks entirely taken aback.

"You must remember something," he says, softer, the lines of a frown creeping into his face, the curl of his mouth soft and red –

"I don't," Steven confesses, "I – nothing, I read these," he says, shaking, pulling the dog tags out from under his linen shirt, "they say I'm named Steven, it's what they give soldiers, where I'm – when I'm from, in case you die and they need to identify the remains – "

Anthony stares at him.

"How can it be," he says softly, "that you've forgotten your own name?"

Steven looks at him, lost. "I don't know," he says. "I don't, I swear, I'm not a spy, I'm – "

"A warrior, apparently," Anthony says, his fingers coming to rest on the gun. "You're clearly fit. You're heads taller than any of mine, except perhaps James." He looks down and fiddles with his cuff. "I thought you were lying," he mumbles.

Steven looks down at his arms.

"I'm not a spy," he repeats.

Anthony stares at him for a long time.

"Well, if you are, you're a terrible one," he says, finally. "Are you skilled?"

Steven wants to scream.

"I don't know," he says, again.

"It's not a difficult question," Anthony says. "What do you think you can do?"

"I – "

"What do you _feel_like you should be doing," Anthony amends.

Steven's eyes drift to the table, to Anthony's hands still on the gun.

"I'll work," Steven says desperately.

"You will, yes," Anthony says.

"Please don't maroon me on a glacier."

Anthony ducks his head with a smirk. "I wouldn't," he says. "I'm not nearly as monstrous as they say."

"Do they," Steven says weakly.

Anthony's mouth curls into a smile. "I could be monstrous," he says.

Steve means to lower his eyes to the floor, but somehow he ends up locking eyes with Anthony anyway. "I'm not a sailor," Steven manages, his mouth gone dry.

"You are now," Anthony says. "Caroline will show you about."

"I thought you were pirates," Steven hears himself say.

Anthony crosses his legs and smiles a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Yes," he says bitterly. "I suppose we are."

* * *

Steve is repairing a sail.

The woman named Janet is sitting next to him, cross-legged, in soft brown pants, her hair tied messily out of her face, bundled in at least three coats that make her look as if she's been swallowed up in wool.

"No, like this," she says, and he watches her hands wend under the folds of fabric, watches the thread go delicately around the outside of the sail.

"Ok," he says, and imitates her.

It's not bad work, but he feels useless. He's as big as their biggest man, and he feels it, strength in his body, warmth finding his limbs again. He couldn't do the work Peter does, the scrawny one who scrambles up and down the lines like he was born to do it, or Clinton, bigger, but steady and lithe as a cat, perched up in the nest for hours every day. Honestly, the thought of climbing up on the lines makes him sick to think about, because he imagines falling, the horror of the plunge, the plummet from the sky. Still, though, he could do other things – hauling lines, tying them off. That work he's seen a few of them do, with stones, kneeling on the deck, scrubbing salt from the teak. It looks backbreaking, but he's craving the exertion. Sedentary activity doesn't suit him, he thinks.

He was a soldier, he supposes. Fighting is what he was best at, and now he's mending sails.

"Tell me about where you come from," Janet says.

"I don't really remember," Steve says. They've all asked him. He doesn't mind talking with most of them; they usually expect great things, grand tales, but Steve doesn't know what to tell them, so he waits for specific questions, waits for their prompting. A world is too much to explain without direction.

"You were a soldier," she says, probing, and Steve stiffens and wrenches the thread a bit too sharply and tears another hole to be mended.

"Apparently," he says, thinking of the shining gun and his olive green, and the strange red-white-and-blue leather and metal armor he'd been wearing when they found him.

"Well, you're here now, aren't you," she says, and passes him another roll of canvas.

He is, isn't he.

He doesn't see the one named Peter much. He's always up top, scrambling between precarious foothold and scant bit of rope. He doesn't see the one named James much, either, and he keeps his distance when he does. He doesn't know what he's done to offend the man, but the looks he gets are nothing short of icy.

Keeping his head down, out of the way – it feels familiar like few things here do, a thing long buried, dredged up from a past he doesn't remember.

He tries not to be too concerned and reminds himself that nothing here is in his control.

Clinton, he gets along with. After they'd gotten past the baiting, the hardtack full of maggots, the trick ropes he seems to have gone out of his way to set, Clinton had thrown him an orange, clapped him on the back, and offered to show him how to shoot if he was so inclined.

Steve is fairly certain bows became obsolete at least 200 years ago – even by this calendar – but it's not like he has any right to criticize.

As far as he knows, this is all an absurd nightmare.

Logan glares at lot, Steve thinks, until he realizes that Logan barely has facial expressions beneath his wild thing of a beard. He's seen him, at the far end of the space below deck where they all sleep, staring into the light of a solitary lantern, polishing his blades until they gleam. Their paths rarely cross, and Logan seems happiest when he's hauling heavy things or brooding alone or glowering at whomever dares cross his path.

Steve decides not to force camaraderie. It has to happen naturally.

Still, he thinks perhaps Anthony should have chosen a surgeon with a better bedside manner.

He doesn't see much of Anthony. He spends a great deal of time in his cabin, and when he's not there, he's at the helm, splendid in his finery, the wheel in his strong hands like he's somehow managed to effortlessly command the seas.

Steve does pass him once, in the night, half-asleep and unsteady on his feet on his way back to his sad little hammock. Anthony stares at him for a minute, and then turns without a word, his boots tapping away on the deck, the scent of spice lost to the chill of the night air.

Steve likes Thor the best. He's jovial. Steve doesn't know what he does, but he's easy to be around and eager to talk, and he doesn't seem to care much where or when Steve's come from. He withholds nothing, carries a strange wisdom about him, acts as though he knows something about Steve that even Steve hasn't managed to figured out yet.

"Have heart, Steven," he booms, clapping Steve so forcefully on the back the air is knocked from his lungs, "for all things there is cause. The universe will show you her designs."

Steve wishes he had such confidence.

* * *

They're two weeks on when Clinton spots it.

Anthony shudders, wrapped in layer upon layer of fabric and fur, but the chill is inescapable. He's never coming north of Boston again except to get to England, certainly not this time of year. He's peering through his spyglass at the offending ship, a solitary merchant vessel.

"She's a bit far north," Caroline says reasonably.

"Fur traders," Logan grunts, from where he's tying down a line.

"It must be," Anthony concurs. "Going back to England. Well. Run up the colors!"

Peter scrambles off to hoist their flag, a deep, rich, rust-colored red with a golden skull sewn on – Steve could do better, he thinks, but he's fairly certain Anthony is responsible for the design. Caroline is ducking away below to ready the guns, though Anthony hopes it won't come to that – he dearly hates making repairs while they're underway and La Héve is still days off. At least the French take to them rather better than the English, these days. James adjusts their course to intercept, his hands thick on the wheel, his eyes never once wavering from their quarry.

At least they'll have something to sell to keep themselves fed once they make port.

Steven is scrubbing with a whetstone when he re-emerges from below deck, the salt grinding noisily away under his massive hands. He looks up from where he's kneeling and gives an impossibly proud and impossibly disappointed look, and Anthony hates that Steven makes him feel so scrutinized.

(Anthony hates that he's doing work like this, it's such a waste, he could be – )

He seems to enjoy it, at least. He looks warm enough without Anthony to warm his bunk. He's not even wearing furs.

Anthony makes his way over. "Do you have a problem, Captain?"

"No," Steven says. He scrubs away without meeting Anthony's eyes.

"Providence smiles upon you," Anthony says. "I require your services."

Steven sighs, sits back on his heels, uncovers his mug of rum-tainted water and snatches it up from the deck with an impossibly well-muscled arm. "I'll pass," he says.

"It was not a request," Anthony says flatly.

"You may all be career criminals –"

"– opportunists –" Anthony says stiffly –

"– but I'm not, yet," Steven finishes.

Anthony feels, for once, like a cad.

"How fortunate that you think so highly of your shipmates," he manages, and he intends every whit of vitriol in his voice.

"No," Steven says quietly, "I mean – I think I've probably done enough killing in my other life."

Anthony stares at him, for a minute, because of all the times, this _man –_

Because Anthony's seen him, straining away, the peak of physical perfection, and Anthony is nothing if not a greedy man. Perhaps it's selfish, but he'd love to see it, Steven banging away with a broadsword, sweat trickling down his neck, his brow furrowed in concentration, all that muscle harnessed –

"I need you to fight." It's true, they haven't the manpower they really need for such an undertaking; it's very possibly why they've struggled so these past months. They've been stretched thin, after Wanda –

Steven's hand stills on the brush. "I don't remember being a warrior," he says levelly, and looks up at Anthony with something like defiance.

Well.

"I wouldn't know how to fight," he says.

Anthony truly cannot help the way his eyes proceed to roam over Steven's spry body. "With muscles like that," Anthony says faintly. Steven does something that looks an awful lot like a bashful shrug.

"You threw a knife at me, Captain."

Steven blinks. "I wasn't myself."

"Perhaps you were," Anthony presses.

"You're going to be stealing from them," Steven says, with a taste of bitterness. He recovers his mug, puts his back into scrubbing again. As if it's nothing.

As if he can _do that_.

"Yes," Anthony says, "we are." He stops Steven's brush mid-stroke with the flat of his boot. "And they, in turn, will be trying to take our lives, Captain."

"Why do you insist on calling me that?" Steven asks, dour.

"Is it not what you are?" Anthony asks.

Steven looks very intently at the grain of the wood on the deck before he says, "I won't help you terrorize honest men," he says simply.

Anthony seriously considers banishing him to the brig. Considers giving him bilge duty, considers ten things in the space of a few seconds that are really all unbelievably petty if he's honest, and that's just it, it's him being petty, and what is it about this man that has him _reconsidering_, they don't have time for this, they don't have the manpower, he doesn't need to listen to anything this one has to say, he's a –_prisoner_, he's nothing more than bothersome _cargo_, it's absurd to even be having this conversation, he was clearly meant for battle and he's shilly-shallying –

"If you want to eat, you will," Anthony hears himself saying, and he hopes he sounds as annoyed as he's feeling. "So be it. I suppose you'll stay."

Better not to damage the cargo, he tells himself. Better to preserve their investment. That's what he is, an investment. Gold in the flesh.

He smirks, feels no mirth at all in it, even though it's low to do, even though the thrumming of his heart as he glances over the bowsprit to see the shadow of their vessel coming up is really the difficulty. "You stay here, you defend my ship, should it come to that." He thrusts a cutlass into the solid mass of Steven's chest, and it's like hitting a wall. Undeterred, Anthony levels his gaze at Steven's piercing blue eyes. "Unless that, too, offends your delicate sensibilities, _Captain_?"

In the space of a second, Caroline is thrusting Anthony's armor at him in a bundle.

"Excuse me, sir," she hisses. "I believe you have an assault to lead."

Steven's face darkens, but he stands, tall and rippling, and bows his head like _he's_ better, like he can't _be_ botheredto stoop to Anthony's taunts.

(Not taunting, _justified, _he's well within rights as Captain to _–)_

"Then you know where to find me," he says coldly. "I'll be here. _Defending_." He closes his fingers around the proffered sword. "_Sir_."

That's when the fur traders fire a shot across their bow.


End file.
